The Tudor

The Tudor

"That could have been you," Mom whispered as we sat watching the evening news. "God works in mysterious ways."

She looked to me with the puffy eyes she'd adopted since my diagnoses with Hodgkin's Lymphoma 5 months ago.

Another child had been slain. The newscaster recounted grisly detail in a tone both strident and somber. Seven children murdered over the past eight weeks. All the victims from surrounding middle schools. The latest victim, Todd Shue, my classmate. I had been his secret Santa last Christmas. He was found with his eyes and nose in his mouth, his lips sewn shut.

"Mysterious ways," Mom repeated.

Yeah, I thought, people keep telling me that.

****

I went to class for the first couple months after my diagnosis but as the therapy went on, I was too tired. Besides, people started treating me like I was already dead. That was worse than the fatigue.

The chemotherapy wreaked havoc on my muscles but physical rehabilitation counted as gym credits. However, I needed a tutor for the rest of my classes.

I didn't like Mr. Ambrose from the minute he arrived at my home. He had a gangly, stooping posture; his face looked like Herman Munster. Mostly, I disliked his eyes and how they watched me.

After my first session, I gave my appraisal of Ambrose to Dr. Heiss. The hematologist had become a close friend during that time. He listened patiently.

"Keep in mind,"  Heiss said as he prepped to inject a syringe of radioactive dye into my neck, "this nasty little gene has stomped on your rose colored glasses. It's easy to see the bad. Try giving him a chance."

"Maybe you're right."

"Besides, once you beat this, you'll be done with the weirdo."

We laughed.

"Now hold still. This needle hits your jugular, and your dead in 10 seconds."

"Seriously?" I asked, frightened.

"Yeah but don't worry," Heiss assured, "I've seen this on tv a million times."

We laughed. Some people don't get that, or they think it's inappropriate. They don't know how it feels to be treated like a fragile thing by everyone. Being treated like you're strong makes you feel strong.

That night, as I lay in bed, I tried to apply the doctors advise about Ambrose. But I kept remembering the way he'd glared at me and seemed to enjoy the sight of my illness.

When I finally dozed off, I dreamed of Todd. My murdered classmate was inside the giant CT scanner with me. Pinned to his chest, below his mutilated face was the genuine Texas Rangers badge I'd given him for Christmas. I woke screaming.

******

Ambrose arrived an hour late. The delay meant I'd be taking my painkillers before he left. I would be groggy during our session.

Ambrose apologized politely.

"No problem," my mother said, "I'm off to the supermarket, call if you need anything, Mike."

I need you to stay, I thought while gazing at my cellphone.

As the lesson progressed my painkillers kicked in. Ambrose tolerated my drowsiness with mild irritation.

At some point the Tudor popped open his case to retrieve a textbook when a small medal object clinked out on to the table. I recognized the ranger badge at once. My head swam as I stared at the golden star. Black dots flickered in my vision. It was the badge I'd given to Todd.

Ambrose froze, staring blankly into his briefcase, not acknowledging the badge. The moment seemed endless. Just as my attention shot to my phone, the Tudor pulled a notebook from his case and laid it on the table, casually brushing the phone away before I could grab it.

When our eyes met, I saw his face had gone slack. It was the demented face his victims must have seen. It was monstrous.

I bolted up and sprinted for our front door. There was a screech and clatter as Ambrose sprang from his own chair and came after me. The medicine made it feel like trying to run in a nightmare; my uncooperative legs pumped clumsily as I heard the maniac scrambling after me.

I grabbed at the knob, relishing it's cold solid form, and ripped the door open. The Tudors fingers grazed my collar as I prepared to dive through. I was in mid jump when his hand snagged the waistband of my pants; he swung me back into the house violently. With terrible speed, the murderer tackled me to the ground, the table knocked over with us.

His face was pure insanity as he began to strangle me. I gouged at his eyes with one hand, while the other searched frantically for some type of weapon. The spots were back in my vision, my lips went numb, and then my hand closed around a small star shaped object. I slashed with with all my strength and the sharp point of the badge bit deep into the side of Mr. Ambrose neck. First, his blood washed over me, then darkness.

My mother returned and called the police; you can fill in the blanks from there. I'm still sick, but I'm still fighting. I beat him and I'll beat this too.


  *Note: With the exception of the murders and serial killer, this story is mostly true. My older brother, Adrian was diagnosed with hodgkin's disease when he was 5 years old. While the protagonist, Mike, certainly faces a "harrowing" dilemma, this story cannot truly convey what it must be like for a little boy to endure the grueling treatment needed to overcome such an ailment. So while the more fantastic elements of this story are embellished, it is true that both my brother and the protagonist had to fight for their lives.

It has now been 34 years since my brother was diagnosed with cancer. Just like his fictional alter-ego, he came out on top in the battle; Adrian will turn 40 this year. I love my brother very much and this story is dedicated to him.